A Throne of Iron
by bpwx
Summary: Rhaegar kills Robert at the Trident. The realm is now at peace... but how long will it last? Families plot against each other, blood spills... and in between it all is a throne made from iron. Who shall win it in the end?
1. Chapter 1

**PROLOGUE**

The host of Rhaegar Targaryen approached King's Landing on the horizon of the setting sun.

Hoppin was the one who spotted them first; he always was. _The impudent little shit spots everything, _thought Joseth. Commander Janos always said that Hoppin was the best man on the Gate of the Gods.

Joseth, on the other hand, was called "Joseth the Whoremonger" by the Commander. _Rightly so. _Joseth always visited the brothels while not on duty, offering them all the money he had in his pocket for the best one they had. He probably had as many bastards in the city as Walder Frey had siblings and offspring.

Rhaegar's host was at least forty-thousand when he left King's Landing; it looked the same returning, as well. Joseth heard from the officers in the barracks that Rhaegar had killed the rebel Lord Robert at the strident by a very well placed sword stroke, right in the neck. The Commander had also said that the rest of the rebel force, led by Eddard Stark, Hoster Tully, and Jon Arryn, had surrendered the rest of the host.

_That explains all the rebel banners. _Joseth could glimpse the moon and falcon of Arryn, the direwolf of Stark, the leaping trout of Tully. The men under those banners were no more than thirty each group.

Among the loyalists, he examined the sun and spear of House Martell, almost ten-thousand, Joseth would guess. Hundreds of red three headed dragons on black, of course.

"How many do you think are out there?" a voice to his right asked.

Joseth turned to see a man all in white, white armor, white cloak, white everything. He had blonde and curly hair, green eyes that felt like they were staring into your very being, a tall frame, and a smile that cut like a knife.

Joseth bowed his head. "Ser Jaime."

Jaime Lannister laughed. "You're not one for answering questions are you?" When Joseth still did not answer, struggling with the words to say, Jaime turned toward Rhaegar's host. "I'd say there's at least… fifty-thousand, altogether."

"A good guess, my lord" Joseth finally said nervously.

"I am no lord, watchman, I am a Knight of the Kingsguard. If you want to observe your courtesies, go talk to the king."

Joseth swallowed, hoped it wasn't visible. "I am sorry my- Ser Jaime."

Jaime turned to Joseth again. "Have you wronged me? I seem to have forgotten. Never mind, I have a mission to accomplish." He handed the gold cloak a letter. "This is His Grace's royal command. Rhaegar and his men are not to enter the city until he gives the order, give the letter to Commander Slynt." Ser Jaime Lannister gave the guardsman one last look, then left.

Joseth sighed in relief when the knight left. _Thank the gods; I thought the torture would never end._

It was a long walk down to the barracks.

The Commander sat with Allar Deem at a table made of oakenwood when Joseth pushed the door open. Commander Janos Slynt was probably the most ugly man that Joseth had ever laid eyes on. He had jowly cheeks, squinty eyes, and a face like a frog. Allar Deem, ironically, was the cruelest and most controlling man in the City Watch. He was probably the strongest too, with his thick arms, thick legs, and add that he is feared in King's Landing's streets make for a pretty frightening person.

When Joseth entered Janos rose and broke off his conversation. "Has Rhaegar arrived?" he asked, jowls quivering.

Joseth bowed and replied, "Yes, Commander, he has. But I have received an order from His Grace from Ser Jaime's hand." He handed the letter to Janos.

The Commander of the City Watch snatched it from his hand, staring at Joseth coldly. Breaking the seal, he read it, and then threw it down on the table. "You got this directly from Ser Jaime, Joseth?"

"Y-yes, Commander, is there a problem?"

"This letter is a forgery," answered the Commander of the City Watch.

Janos explained; the king sent orders to the Commander all the time, with his sign and seal. Aerys' signature was written by someone else's hand, and the seal on the letter was not the three headed dragon, just regular wax with no sigil.

Commander Slynt gave a simple order after that; find the man who forged it, and bring him to the king.

It was an even longer walk up to Aegon's High Hill, where the Red Keep awaited.

The guards admitted him in, telling him His Grace would be in the throne room. Joseth followed the twisting and twining halls to the room where the throne of the dragonking's sat for thousands of years. Entering, he looked about; the great dragon skulls that adorned the walls, the stone pillars that rose high up to the ceiling.

He was about to yell for His Grace…when he saw.

A body was slumped below the steps to the throne. It could have been any old man with a large beard, any venerable person in robes… but there was no mistaking him, with those finger nails as long as the fingers themselves, and the golden crown that decorated his head.

He turned to run from the throne room when he felt something hit him in his right side. It was a man, clad all in white, with the cloak of the Kingsguard draped around his shoulders.

They crashed into one of the pillars, Joseth against it. He reached for the sword at his belt, cursing, struggling. The knight punched him right in the gut, knocking the wind right out of him. Joseth fell to the floor, gasping for air.

He lifted his face, and a fist of mail met it. Before he descended into darkness, he didn't get a good look at the man's face, but there was no mistaking that blonde hair, and those striking green eyes.

He awoke to the sound of voices.

_Where am I,_ was his first thought. Then he remembered.

"…the realm," said a familiar voice. Those were the only words he heard, he had just woken up.

_Jaime. _

"And serving the realm is killing the king? Is that the way to bring peace?" This one had the voice of an angel.

He heard Jaime laugh. "Apparently so, Your Grace."

_Rhaegar, the angel is Rhaegar. _"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't chop your head off right here, right now, Kingslayer," Rhaegar said in an oddly calm voice.

He heard the sound of chains clinking. "I don't have one," Jaime replied, "Your Grace."

Silence.

The echo of footsteps echoed throughout the throne room. Joseth just realized how close he was to the Iron Throne; he was settled upright against the nearest pillar, in the dark so no one could see him.

He saw Rhaegar Targaryen, the Silver Prince, Prince of Dragonstone, and now knew King of the Seven Kingdoms, stop in front of the monstrosity of a chair, and addressed whoever and however many were in the room. "My father, King Aerys Targaryen, the First of His Name, is dead, as you can plainly see. Some of you may have called him the "Mad King". And with good reason. I have many a time. Before I sit this throne, I wish to offer you the most sincere of apologies. My brash, ill thought, and reckless actions, nearly destroyed my family and its dynasty. Lord Eddard, I am grievously sorry for your father and brother. They have been avenged, and know that I shall never again raise my sword to you and yours."

A voice filled with grief replied "Thank you, Your Grace."

He saw Rhaegar nod. "Lord Jon. I apologize for the death of your cousin, at the Trident. May he live happily with the gods now. And Lord Hoster, I am sorry for the death of many of your bannermen and men at arms. Their sacrifice was not in vain."

Rhaegar was about to sit on the throne that was rightfully his, but stopped suddenly, turning again. "Ser Jaime Lannister. You have committed a great crime, against me and the House of Targaryen."

The Silver Prince strode forward, out of Joseth's line of sight. He heard the sound of steel leaving the scabbard. Joseth scooted over to his right, straining for a peek.

He stood and poked his head out from behind the pillar. And he saw.

The throne room was filled with people, Stark, Martell, Arryn, Targaryen, Tully, all of them. But Joseth's eyes were focused on Ser Jaime Lannister, on his knees in front of Prince- no, _King- _Rhaegar Targaryen, who's Valyrian steel sword was raised.

The sword descended…

…and cut the Kingslayer's metal bindings in one downward strike.

Rhaegar addressed the crowd. "Ser Jaime may have committed regicide, and betrayed his sacred vows to his king, but he has also rid Westeros of a king that would have destroyed us all, if he had the chance. Like I have said before, I apologize for my rash actions. But what most of you realize is that if it wasn't for my father, this war would not have happened. Well it is over now, and the Mad King is dead!" He raised his sword high, and cheers greeted it.

Joseth looked again to Jaime. _He killed his king. _My _king. _Joseth then realized he had his dagger in his belt. He reached for the short piece of steel, admiring the beauty of the glare.

And then he charged.

Yelling, he ran for Ser Jaime, going to avenge his king, the rightful king, he would avenge him!

A sword cut right through his neck.


	2. Elia I

Hey everyone! I am SO…SORRY for the delay! I completely forgot about this story when I first published it on here, and just recently discovered it again!

Now, this may be confusing, but the period the story is in right now, the aftermath of Robert's Rebellion, will only be the period of the story for a couple more chapters, then I will be jumping forward to the time of Game of Thrones, so I can implement the Stark children, Daenerys, and others! If anyone has any questions regarding this, please ask.

Now, as to the questions about Elia and the Targaryen children, you'll see them right…about…now.

**ELIA**

"Aegon, stay away from the balcony, my dear."

The child giggled and blew raspberries at the septa that commanded him. He crawled toward the small wooden knight that lay by his rocking-horse. Septa Hellis sighed loudly, moving the wooden knight away from the balcony to lure the child away from it.

Queen Elia smiled at the scene; Aegon continued to giggle and chase the Septa, while the Septa tried to hide her amused expression. Rhaenys sat across the room, staring hard at her lessons for the day. Elia now had her learning about the history of Dorne and how the Rhoynar came there.

"Rhaenys, come, sit." Elia patted the pillow beside her. She sat near the balcony as well. She had been staring across the city, watching as her husband, the Silver _King_, departed King's Landing, heading south to the Dornish Marches. To the Tower of Joy.

_To the wolf bitch, _she thought. Lyanna Stark was now the bane of her existence. And there she was before she was married to Rhaegar, thinking that Oberyn had been her bane when he had taken a shit on her pillows while she slept, so long ago. Back when they were young, Oberyn and her had been the trouble-makers of the household.

She shook away the thought of home, and turned her attention to her daughter, now seated next to her. She was a beauty, just like her father. Her hair was the silver of House Targeryen, her best feature from Rhaegar. She was tan, though, like her mother, the Dornish skin color. Her brown eyes came from Elia as well, shining like the sea.

Rhaenys sighed. "Mother, it's too hard! Dorne is too complicated for me." She made a face, staring at the floor.

Elia smiled her motherly smile. "What is the problem, my dear daughter? Are you having trouble with the geography again?"

The little princess shook her head vigorously. "No, no, no. I can't figure out how to pronounce Yonwood. Yruonwood? Agh!" She slid her hand down her face in annoyance.

Elia was about to reply when a sudden knock hit the door. "Your Grace, Prince Lewyn, your uncle, requests entrance."

Elia jumped up, smoothing her dress and shushing the children. "Come in, uncle."

Lewyn Martell entered with the style of any Dornishman; smiling brightly and bowing gracefully, while at the same time threateningly. His skin was also the copper of Dorne, his being slightly more darker than herself. What was left of his greying hair was fashioned into a ring around his head, the longer hairs hanging down like a weeping willow tree down head. The peak of his head was bald. He was clad from head to toe with the white raiment of the Kingsguard. His green eyes shot around the room like a woodpecker bird flying at top speed, and rose from his bow. "Your Grace."

Elia nodded to him, taking his hand, smiling like the queen she was. "Uncle. What a pleasant surprise. I thought you had rode south with His Grace my husband?"

"I was supposed to, Your Grace. But King Rhaegar changed his mind. He wishes for me to keep my eye out for you, keep you safe from any… dangers."

Elia knew what he meant by dangers. _Ser Jaime. _She had been sleeping when the newly dubbed Kingslayer murdered Aerys. The children were about in the Red Keep somewhere when it happened. She thanked the gods that they did not witness it. "My husband was kind to have done so, granduncle. Do you have any idea when he will return?"

Prince Lewyn shook his head, wincing. "His Grace said he will be however long it takes him to be gone, Elia. I never knew the man to betray his word."

Elia nodded grimly. _Oh Rhaegar… why did you have to leave? Just for that… that Stark whore._ He had just gotten back and just as fast had left.

She frowned slightly. They were now at the balcony, looking out over the city. "Forgive me, uncle, but why exactly are you here instead of… watching for dangers?"

Lewyn chuckled, showing his perfect white teeth, no matter how old. "Can't an old man come and visit his grandniece and her children?"

"Yes, uncle, I suppose so. Yet you have come for something different." She peered at him, searchingly.

Prince Lewyn sighed quite loud. "Varys has been found. He awaits your pleasure in the small council chamber." He turned back to facing the city.

Elia sighed as well after hearing this. Varys had disappeared not long before Rhaegar had returned from the Trident. She knew that he would have went over to Robert if he had won; but he didn't. So now he had returned. "Found? By whom?"

"Not found, I suppose. No one finds Varys, Your Grace. He is seen when he wants to be seen. Never found." He visibly gulped.

Elia sighed again. "Very well. Shall we?"

After telling the children to behave, she and Prince Lewyn began to walk to the small council chamber. It was a long, dreadfully long walk. It seemed that the stonemasons had added extra stairs just to spite her and her frail body.

When they arrived at the small council chamber, Elia finally got to see who her husband left to govern the city until he returned. At the far end of the small council table sat an old man with broad shoulders, the moon and falcon of House Arryn embroidered on his baby blue silk shirt. His entire forehead was bereft of hair, and even the hair he had left was almost all white.

_Jon Arryn, _she thought. The Lord of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn, and Warden of the East. He joined Robert Baratheon, his foster child, in his rebellion, and was now pardoned by King Rhaegar, as were all the rebel lords.

Another one of the former rebels sat communing with Lord Arryn. Hoster Tully was one of the biggest men Elia had ever seen. His red hair, speckled with grey here and there, flowed almost to his large and wide shoulders. He still wore his mail under his tabard, the Tully sigil of a trout jumping on mud brown and red and blue. A scar ran down his face as well, she guessed from the Trident, as it looked fresh.

Qarlton Chelsted, Aerys' former and last Hand, sat nearest to Elia, at the other end of the table. He was a mere mouse in comparison to Hoster Tully; he was almost Elia's height and wider than Hoster Tully, fat-wise. His bald head was covered with pimples and other unsightly things.

They all rose and bowed when she entered the room. Elia nodded to all of them, motioning to sit. She moved to sit to the left of the king's normal seat, Prince Lewyn taking his place behind her. She frowned; she did not see Varys. "Where is Lord Varys?"

Jon Arryn sighed. "He is being escorted here by Grand Maester Pycelle, Your Grace. They should be here shortly."

Lord Qarlton snorted. "That old man will probably take years just to get down the steps to the throne room."

Elia gave him a sharp look, silencing him. She sighed. "Very well. We shall discuss the current state of the city while we wait, then."

Jon nodded. "As you say, Your Grace. But, we cannot continue without Lord Connington, surely?"

"You could have continued without me, Lord Arryn, but I am here now." Lord Jon Connington entered the room with a slight grin on his face. His usually clean shaven face was now covered in red hair like a jungle is with wildlife. His leathery skin went well with his hazel eyes. Crow's feet sat on the corners of his eyes. He bowed to the queen. "Your Grace."

Elia motioned him to stop. "Please, sit, Lord Connington." She frowned at the sight of the Hand of the King's badge pinned on his tabard. She knew it was coming before Rhaegar even entered the city. Jon Connington was one of the king's few close friends, and the closest at that. After Aerys exiled him, Jon had hid in the city for all that time, waiting for Rhaegar to return and un-exile him, like he knew all along that he would be made Hand. She did not trust him, nor like him.

Connington sat, still grinning, into the Hand's chair, on the right side of the king's seat. "Shall we continue?"

Lord Arryn nodded. "Yes, my lord Hand." He took out two papers from a small ledger to his side. He squinted to see the words clearly. "It seems that we owe the Iron Bank a considerable amount after this war, Your Grace. Two-million golden dragons, added to the first one-million, of course."

Hoster snorted. "It seems King Aerys has not looked in his own treasury. There are one-million golden dragons in that vault, the keepers tell me. And King Aerys has not even farted in its direction."

Qarlton chuckled at that. Elia rolled her eyes. Jon Connington asked "What did King Aerys ask of the Iron Bank this time, Lord Arryn?"

Elia had figured out Arryn's position: Master of Coin.

Jon squinted again. "Mercenaries, it seems, Lord Connington."

Connington shook his head. "The mercenaries have not yet arrived, which means that we still might have the money on the way, or the mercenaries do not know the war is over, and are still headed here."

Elia ran her nails along the table. "The mercenaries will be payed for their trouble. They can either stay here and serve to keep the peace, or they can return to wherever they came from."

As soon as she said this, the door opened and in came the old fart and the eunuch.

Pycelle had only a little hair that ran down around his bald and spotted head. His beard almost ran all the way past his stomach, the most magnificent beard Elia had seen. The old man had been Grand Maester for forty years, why couldn't he just die? His maester's chain rang annoyingly with its many links as he walked slowly in. "Your Grace," he said as he bowed, slowly.

She did not pay attention to him; her full attention was on Varys. The bald, clean shaven, probably bereft of hair anywhere Spider. A smile split across his face as he entered the room, perfume radiating off of him. He wringed his hands as he bowed for the queen. "My Queen. How beautiful you look."

Elia smiled her deadliest smile. "You are to kind, Lord Varys. Where have you been all this time?"

Varys moved to sit down, but waited for the queen to say he could. She moved her hand and he sat slowly. "Forgive me, Your Grace, for leaving without any notion of my doing so. I had to, you understand. Leaving with no trace, just in case the foul rebel Robert Baratheon won against His Grace King Rhaegar, was the ideal thing to do so the traitor would not find me afterwards." He smiled nervously.

Elia smiled back, chuckling a bit. "Of course, my lord. I do not doubt that we all would have done the same if we were you." _You, a lying, venomous, traitorous, plotting eunuch._

Lord Connington nodded, grinning. "Aye, Your Grace, I do not either." He filled his wine glass, taking a gulp. "Now, let's get back to the debt problem, shall we?"

Varys raised his hand just a bit. "Pardon, my lord Hand. But there is something that I must inform all of you of, immediately."

Elia raised an eyebrow, as did Jon Arryn. The others did not really pay attention.

Varys took a deep breath. "The Lannisters, as you know, did not take a side in the war, my lords and queen. They waited until they saw a clear victor, and saw that it was our righteous cause. He has finally heard of the atrocity that Ser Jaime has committed, and wishes to apologize in person. He and his two other children, along with a small group of mounted lances to guard them, are heading here, as we speak."

The others now sat there, gaping, paying more attention now.

Varys was not finished. "Also, I have more news from the west, this time in the Iron Islands. It seems they have sent an envoy on its way as well, this one by sea. The reasons for sending the envoy remain unknown by me." He looked to each of them in turn. "But the Lannisters reasons are; they wish to request a bond of matrimony to lovely Princess Rhaenys."

Elia frowns. "To whom, Varys?"

Varys sighs but smiles at the same time. "Tyrion Lannister. Tywin Lannister's dwarf son, Your Grace." He chuckled nervously at Queen Elia Martell's reaction. "I knew you would not like that, Your Grace. Ah, wine. Care for some, Your Grace?"


	3. Eddard I

Update!

Sorry I'm answering some questions late!

Regarding Rhaenys' hair from last chapter: Aye, I know it was brown, my apologies. It will be from now on J

Regarding the state of Rhaegar's army in Prologue: Rhaegar and Robert (in this AU) fought in a duel prior to the battle, before the armies engaged. The rebel's morale fell drastically after Robert was defeated, and the rebel lords sent most of their men home on Rhaegar's orders.

Regarding Jaime: That shall be revealed later, my dear readers ;)

* * *

**EDDARD**

The morning mists broke for their approach toward Storm's End.

Eddard Stark patted his big black stallion, trying to calm it. She had been uneasy all morning since they departed in the early pink of dawn.

"Perhaps," suggested Morwin, the horsemaster he had appointed, when they had been preparing to depart, "Lord Eddard, the old girl is hungry? We've been riding for close on an hour, m'lord."

Ned tried to feed the horse, but still the stallion was whickering and staggering away from a simple insect on the side of the road. He sighed, giving up finally.

Storm's End had stood for thousands of years, and it was lucky to still be standing after the Tyrells and their army of Reachmen had started the siege there. Being one of the strongest castles in all of the Seven Kingdoms, its defenses were strong and the walls even stronger.

The wall surrounded the entire castle in a massive stone outer curtain wall, one hundred feet high and forty feet thick, they said… on its thinnest side. On the seaward side of the wall it was almost eighty feet thick. The anatomy of the wall was composed of a double course of stone with an inner core of sand, gravel and rubble. The wall was not like others, obviously, but the surface of it was smoother than any other wall Ned had seen, curving around the keep within. In legends his foster father, Jon Arryn, had told him when he was a child, many said that the stones were so perfectly inlaid into the wall the wind could find way to reform the wall.

Ned grunted softly. _Stannis did a good job in this rebellion; the only one to do so on our side, it seems. _

Green tents and the sigils of many lords and knights of the Reach were still standing when they arrived on the outskirts of the castle, even though the siege and war had ended. Ned could recognize the Tyrell golden rose, the Ashford white sun-and-chevron, the three beehives of Beesbury, the red fox of Florent, the red and green apple Fossoways (both on opposite sides of the camp, he did not fail to note), the white tower of Hightower, the lords of Oldtown, the golden horn-of-plenty of Merryweather, the grape cluster of Redwyne, and many, many more.

Rhaegar drove the party toward the largest tent in the camp, a golden pavilion on top of a hill half the size of Storm's End's walls. Two Tyrell golden roses on green were stuck in the ground on either sides of the tent flap, as were four guards in single file in front each of those flags. Two knights, both wearing the Hightower sigil.

The oldest one was no more than fifty, covered from head to toe with grey and white, chain and plate. His beard was close cropped and ran from upper lip to chin, not touching his cheeks. Brown hair speckled with grey ran down to his shoulders, combed back from the old man's forehead. His grey wool cloak was dirty and weathered, the Hightower sigil knitted into it.

The Silver King dismounted like an angel, gracefully, like a true king. _Robert would have been a true king as well… _Rhaegar grinned at the old Hightower man. "Greetings, Lord Leyton. I have not had the pleasure of seeing you since the Tourney of Harrenhal."

Ned frowned. _The Old Man of Oldtown? He never leaves the Hightower, I heard. _

Lord Leyton Hightower returned the smile. His grey eyes were cold, not complimenting the smile in any way. "The pleasure and honor is mine, Your Grace. I had been quite busy after that tourney. Add that to my participation in this war, and that is a very busy time for me."

"I understand, Lord Leyton," Rhaegar replied, still grinning with perfect white teeth. "Is Lord Mace within?"

The old Hightower sighed. "Aye, Your Grace. He is not happy, I must warn you. After we were told you had won your stunning victory at the Trident against the traitor…" He glanced over to Eddard and his Stark men. "… we had rode to the gates of Storm's End and ordered Stannis to stand down and open his gates, that the war had been won in favor of our cause." He inhaled and sighed deeply. "He did not believe us. He ordered his men to fire their arrows down upon us. Two of my own men died, along with others, including Lord Mace's cousin Luthor, the son of my City Watch Commander, who is Mace's uncle. We were under the white flag, Your Grace."

From inside the tent, yelling could be heard. Everyone's heads snapped to the opening tent flap. A short and plump young man squirmed out of the pavilion on all fours, almost crying.

A large and enraged old man barreled after the young one. His bald head shone against the morning sun just like his pauldrons, mounted on his broad shoulders, shone against it as well, but brighter. His full beard ran all the way to the top of his chest, which was like his face was covered in salt and pepper. His sigil over his mail armor was split in half; one half was the golden rose of Tyrell, the other the white tower of Hightower. His heavy, grey, silk cloak billowed in the wind as he stomped toward the youth.

He kicked the boy in the arse, knocking him down and getting his tears flowing. "Now get out of my sight and learn your courtesies, you little shit. My son just died and you expect me to-" He stopped midsentence wide-eyed, staring at Rhaegar. He cleared his throat, bowing slightly, embarrassed clearly. "Your Grace. I er… apologize, for that rude and… unsightly behavior."

King Rhaegar frowned, his smile gone. "Would you like to explain yourself, ser?"

The other Hightower, the one with Lord Leyton, stepped forward finally. His blonde hair swayed as he took a couple steps toward the angry addition to the conversation. His teeth were almost as bright as Rhaegar's. His clean shaven face made it seem even brighter than it actually was. "Your Grace, forgive Ser Moryn. He is… under a lot of pain. His is the son that was slain while we went to negotiate with Stannis."

_Ser Moryn Tyrell. _He was the Commander of the City Watch of Oldtown, uncle to Lord Mace. _Why the hell is he all the way over here and not commanding his Watch?_

Rhaegar nodded. "Ser Moryn. I am sorry for your loss. But we can mourn the fallen later. After this mess," he gestured to Storm's End, "is dealt with. Stannis will surrender or he will die."

"The retched man should die anyway, Your Grace," said Ser Moryn. "My eldest son is now rotting in the ground thanks to that sour fuck." He spit on the ground.

"And so were many others killed, Ser Moryn." This was Ned's first time speaking since they started riding this morning.

Ser Moryn glared with loathing at Ned, grinding his teeth. "More of you rebel's than loyal men of the realm, Stark."

"Enough," the Silver King interrupted. He gave Ned a sharp look, no expression of anger on his face, but it still cut to the core of a man's being.

The Dragonking, after staring at Ned for a time to get the point across, motioned for him, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Ser Jonothor Darry to follow him into the pavilion. The Hightower's followed while Ser Moryn remained outside, glaring at Ned while he passed.

Lord Mace Tyrell was sitting on a camp stool drinking out of a silver wine cup at his desk when they entered. Despite the morning chill, the Lord Tyrell was sweating under his plate and chain. His massive and muscular frame was almost comparable to Robert before…

Eddard swallowed. _Do not think about him, Ned, not here, not now. _The Lord of Highgarden's curly and brown hair bounced every time he moved a muscle. His beard was in the shape of a spade. Ned's lips curled into a ghost of a smile. _How odd these southerners are._

Mace almost choked on his wine when the king entered. He immediately stood and bowed. "Your Grace." A trickle of wine ran down his chin and slithered down his neck. "What a very pleasant surprise. You honor me with your presence. I… I mourn for your father, blessed be his memory."

_Ass-kisser this one is, isn't he?_

Rhaegar clasped Lord Mace on the shoulder. "Rise, Lord Mace. You honor me as well. You have held Stannis at bay for close on a year, and the realm thanks you for that." He moved over to the other side of Mace's desk, pulling up a camp stool. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."

The Flower Lord sat not even a second after he was bid to. He grabbed the flagon of wine, offering the king some. "Yes, Your Grace, as you will."

Rhaegar took a cup and filled it with the Arbor gold. "First. Tell me of this incident with the surrender envoy."

Mace sighed. "Anything Lord Leyton there told you already is all you need to know. We went under the white banner and he fired upon us. He thought it was a ruse to lure him out of the castle. I swear the man has gone mad, Your Grace. I hear that he has ordered his men to eat the corpses of his fallen."

"I would do the same if my men were without food for close on a year, Lord Mace."

"Aye, but the _dead? _I would sooner resort to eating grass."

_You're a southerner, you probably do. Odd men you southerners are._

Rhaegar sipped his wine a moment, then set it down. "If Stannis had gone mad, he would have surrendered by now. Stannis Baratheon is not a man to surrender whilst sane. He may be new to the whole war scenario, but he is an exceptional military commander. He will not surrender until he is told Robert is dead."

Mace shook his head. "Your Grace we have already-"

"He will be told by the one who killed him, Lord Tyrell."

Everyone gaped except Ned. He kind of saw it coming; it was the only way to convince Stannis to surrender, and it had to come from the one who placed the sword stroke into his old friend's neck.

It took a good hour for the party to set off toward Storm's End's main gate and confront Stannis Baratheon, for the good of all.

The massive five-and-thirty foot gate main gate was sealed shut so tight it would take all of the giant's in all eternity to push it open, it seemed. Archers were stationed on the battlements, trying to hide, but Ned could see them. Their arrows were knocked and ready.

Rhaegar stopped directly in front of the main gate, shouting up to the battlements. "I call forth Lord Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and House Baratheon."

They waited several minutes before the skinniest man Ned Stark had ever seen appeared on the battlements above them. His lean frame was naught but skin and bone, not muscle nor string of fat could be visible in the silhouette above them. "Who the fuck is calling me this time?" the man shouted from the battlements. "Another flowery cunt come to get himself feathered with arrows?"

Ned smiled. _Stannis Baratheon. I finally meet you… and I'm on the wrong side._

"Rhaegar, of the House Targaryen. I have come to you with an offer."

"The damned Tyrell boy came with an offer as well, look where it got him, _Silver Prince._" Venom was in the last words spoken.

"Silver King now, Stannis. And you are now _Lord _Stannis Baratheon. Robert has been slain in combat, my lord."

Silence. Stannis, after a moment, yelled down, "You lie. Show me the proof then, Dragonking. Where is it written that my brother is dead?"

Ned rode forward, earning a sharp glance from Rhaegar. "Stannis! I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and former foster-brother to your brother, and my friend. I shall give you the proof you need. Robert has often told you of my honor and my undying brotherhood to him."

"Aye, he loved… oh, almost fell for your lie… I meant loves, you more than me."

"Loved is correct, Lord Stannis. Robert was slain at the Trident, we surrendered in good faith to King Rhaegar. Aerys is dead, slain by Jaime Lannister, as well. Our revenge is complete. We can end this without bloodshed."

Silence, then "How can I know you are telling the truth? Bah, you aren't anyways, best leave before I have my men here do what they did to that flowery little Tyrell boy to you, _Your Grace._" The archers bent there bows back, aiming for Rhaegar. The Kingsguard rode their horses forward, loosening their swords.

Rhaegar blinked a bit. "Lord Stannis, do you know how many men we have out here? The Tyrell host is near fifty-thousand strong, and the Redwyne Fleet blockades your seaside exit. Your men will be able to eat, drink, sleep well, have a warm fire, and see their loved ones again if you surrender in good faith. We have food out here for you, and drink. Water, all the things you have not had in a year. Surrender, and you will be forgiven for your rebellious ways."

Stannis turned to each of the two men that just joined him on the battlements, talking. He turned back. "How do we know the truth of your words, Rhaegar Targaryen? How can we trust the son of the king that slaughtered women and children just because he felt like it?"

Ned craned his neck up to stare at Stannis. "King Rhaegar did the same to me as he will to you. He will treat you with honor, not as a prisoner. You and your men will be given all that he has promised and more, Lord Stannis."

Silence again. "I'll be pardoned for everything? That means I'll still be Lord of Storm's End and of the Stormlands?"

Rhaegar nodded. "Aye, but that should not be your concern, Lord Stannis. Your concern should be the lives of the men under your command. I shall give you a warm hearth and a hot meal. But only if you open your gates and give up your lost and pointless cause."

Ned tried to read Stannis, find out what his angle was. He obviously did not like Ned, after surrendering to Rhaegar. He could see that Stannis would not give up Storm's End easily though.

Stannis turned back to Rhaegar. "The gates will be opened. But only if you send back your men and enter the castle alone, so we can discuss the terms in privy."

Rhaegar chuckled, shaking his head. "I will not have another Duskendale, Lord Stannis. Surrender the castle or your men will starve, or get slaughtered. Easy as that."

Silence once again.

Stannis was visibly tempted and shaking with nervousness after that. "Eddard Stark… you are a man of honor, as my brother so often reminded me when he came to visit…you swear it? By the old gods and the new?"

Ned licked his lips. _We have him. It is done. _"Lord Stannis. Open your gates and you shall be given food and a warm fire. I swear it by the old gods and the new, and may King Rhaegar bear witness to my vow, that you shall be not be harmed nor insulted when you open these gates."

The silence after that was like an eternity.

The rusted hinges creaked loudly, and the gates to Storm's End opened.

Ned smiled and laughed, almost crying. _And so it ends… but not how it should have. Robert and me would have broken the siege and saved Stannis. _

_Oh Robert… it should not have ended this way…_


	4. Jorah I

**JORAH**

He could glimpse just over the hill they were climbing the flapping banners of House Frey.

_Finally, _Ser Jorah Mormont thought. _A warm hearth and sweet wine. But only for a night. That's all Father will allow. As always._

He glanced at the Old Bear, as he heard the men-at-arms call him in their cups, standing tall in the saddle, chin held high, more-white-than-brown beard bouncing with the momentum. They had stayed and cleaned up the remaining loyalist men in the riverlands as the new Lord Stark had commanded him; now the two-hundred-and-fifty strong host was marching to King's Landing, down the kingsroad, to swear loyalty to a man that they had sworn to kill a year ago.

Jorah sighed at the irony of it all as they approached the Crossing.

The Twins, the ancient seat of House Frey, were said to have been founded six-hundred years ago. The stone looked ancient enough; it looked as old and crumbled as at least a thousand. Two identical castles stood on either side of the Green Fork, both as foreboding as the family that controlled them. Jorah could see the large, arching stone bridge connecting both of the castles. A small tower in the exact center of the crossing stood vigilant, looking insignificant to the two castles on either side of it.

_It took the Freys three generations to build _this_? _He had heard somewhere that the Crossing had started from two keeps made of timber, and Jorah could see that the three generations of Freys did not make a great amount of progress, in his eyes.

Jorah smirked. "I see the Freys went through the seven hells and back to make this monstrosity," he remarked sarcastically.

The Old Bear gave his son a sharp look, Jorah looking off in the distance, pretending not to notice. "The Freys are a proud and established house, Jorah. The Crossing is more fortified than it looks."

"Aye, as was Harrenhal, but look at it now, Father. A mere shadow of its former greatness, a relic of history. And the Twins could be one as well, if they refuse our passing."

Jeor's eyes flared with anger. "And who's going to take one of the most defensible positions in the Seven Kingdoms with two-hundred men? You?" He chuckled. "Don't be so pig-headed, my son. I raised you better than that. That 'monstrosity' is our only way of getting across the Green Fork to the Kingsroad, and you will not ruin that with some petty insults to the Freys, especially in their or my presence. Is that understood, Jorah?"

Jorah sighed, nodding.

As they reached the base of the hill, the trail down to the first moat into the Twins was open and fast. The drawbridge was already lowered. The moats were more impressively deep than Jorah would have thought; they looked petty from a distance, but up close, he would never have even thought there was a bottom if he did not know better. The portcullis on the other side of the wooden drawbridge, the entrance to the barbican on the same side, was not yet open.

_Walder Frey seems so confident in his defenses he might as well just invite the enemy in for a feast to feed them before they take the castle._

Jorah could spot archers watching them from the high curtain walls above them. He, and probably every other knight in the realm as well, hated archers; cowardly, they sit behind walls and ranks of men as their braver comrades below or in front of them are cut down by the enemy. This may be Jorah's first war, but he knew the basics of what archers' tasks in battle were.

The portcullis opened for three knights with the twin towers of House Frey embroidered on their coats, accompanied by ten men-at-arms, with the same device on theirs, five on either side of the three mounted Frey knights.

The one in the front of all of them resembled an exact representation of a weasel; his grey eyes brought that out even more. The man was either in his forties or his fifties; it made little difference to Jorah. His chin was raised proudly and pompously when he yelled out "Who approaches our honorable hold?"

The Old Bear rode forward. "I and the men under me, my lord. I have the honor to be Jeor Mormont, Lord of Bear Island and bannerman of Lord Eddard Stark. We seek to cross the Fork, Lord Frey, and a warm hearth and meal, if you would be so kind."

The knight on the left, wrapped in a thick grey wool cloak from top to bottom, shifted in his seat. This one was fat, Jorah could see, even under all those wrappings. His small eyes were well visible past his hood. "We have a tower and some bread, Lord Mormont. Times are hard, you understand, what with the war and all. Haven't gotten any passers-by come to cross in quite some time."

Jorah could stay quiet no longer. "Aye, the war you were late to, Frey."

"Silence," Jeor snapped at him. He turned back to the Freys, all smiles. "We will take anything we can get, Lord Frey. Just let us cross and we will be no trouble."

The fat one stirred once more. "Lord Walder, my grandfather, would not take such a comment from one so lowly as that one" he pointed at Jorah "without retaliation."

Jorah chuckled. "And you would, obviously, as there you stand, taking my 'comment' with no retaliation. Speak with your sword and not your mouth, Frey." He fingered the hilt of his sword.

The leading knight shot a glance to the fat Frey and turned back to them, smiling. "Of course we shall let you cross, my lords Mormont. Chambers are open to you and your men in the Water Tower, as are our kitchens. Once you are clean and settled we will provide you with a well-made and hot meal in our hall." He grinned and signaled for the portcullis to re-open. "Welcome to the Twins."

Jorah's chamber in the Water Tower was much like his rooms on Bear Island; dark, dank, and wet. His bed, much the same as Bear Island as well; hard as a rock and slightly tilted.

_The famous Frey hospitality is as expected._

When the servants came to run his warm bath he sent them away; he could fetch his own water. That and he did not trust any of these Freys, not at all.

He thanked the gods for the warm water and the cleanly feeling afterwards. He had not felt so clean in months. He walked over to the damaged looking glass to gaze at his reflection for a moment; he was young but he was still a Mormont, so his burly and hairy frame was no surprise once he reached the age of adulthood. He ran his hairy hand through his coarse, short-cropped hair, eventually getting to his first battle scar he gained at the Trident. Ser Jorah sighed; he still felt the sting on the back of his neck, and the blood of the man-at-arms who gave him the scar spurting all over, running red in the water beneath their feet.

_I still remember his face… not even a lad of six-and-ten, recruited into a war he knew nothing about, probably. _The battle had been short and indecisive after Robert Baratheon had died, but it still was Jorah's first time killing and fighting in a legitimate battle.

And he would never forget it.

A sharp rasp at the door came. "It's open," Jorah shouted, still staring at his half-naked body, rubbing his scar.

His father came in. He was wearing a brown woolen doublet and pants of the same material, brown leather gloves covering his large and burly hands. No sword swung at his side, which now seemed unusual, even though now there was no need of it. He eyed Jorah up and down. "Would you like to explain yourself?"

"You mean my being wet and half-naked?" He pointed to the tub. "You know what that is, don't you?"

"You know what I mean, Jorah. Enough of this stupidity, enough of the sarcastic attitude. Explain why you disobeyed me in front of our host."

Jorah snatched a white, loose woolen shirt and slipped it on, lacing it up to tighten it. "The Fat Frey first attempted to deny us entry, then threatened us, Father. What else was I supposed to do?"

"Let it go, fool, it was not a life or death situation," Anger was in the Old Bear's tone.

"No, it was not, just the honor of our house."

"_The honor of our house_?" He stomped angrily toward Jorah, now only a couple feet away from him. "Jorah, you are more pig-headed than I thought. You _dishonor _our house by being incited by small slights such as the one Ryman Frey delivered today."

_Ryman, Ryman, remember that name… _

After an hour of scolding, the Old Bear and he headed off to the Freys feasting hall.

Jorah was right about one thing; the Freys had much more than just bread for food. The first course was a thick stew of leeks and carrots and peas and all sorts of other greens. Then came a salad of green beans and carrots and lettuce, with a side of vinegar to pour over it. Four trenchers of dried beef came next, along with more trenchers of salted trout, which was slightly burnt. Wine and a thick and unsavory mead was served all throughout.

When they got to the main course, three giant turkeys stuffed with all sorts of vegetables and lathered with lemon juice, almost all the Freys were well and truly into their cups. They all were dancing and singing 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' nonstop as the northmen dug into the food and covered themselves with wine and beer.

Jorah did not take his eyes off of Ryman Frey the entire time, sitting one seat below his father Ser Stevron, who was the leading knight on the drawbridge, and even he sat one seat below the massive high seat made of black oak, which was vacant; Lord Walder had went to King's Landing to swear fealty to Rhaegar, leaving Ser Stevron in charge of the Crossing.

Ser Jorah rose when Ser Ryman did to take a piss, but Father pulled him back down, whispering "You will _not _do this."

Jorah's nostrils flared, but remained seated and silent.

He went back to the Water Tower drunk and stumbling. He puked violently into the Green Fork several times before he reached his chambers.

When he reached his bed, he sighed, chuckling. _Seems meat, mead and bile are my only friends tonight, and my lover for eternity._

He did not sleep for hours, coughing up bile several more times into his chamber pot before falling into a deep sleep he never wanted to awake from.

He dreamed of dragons and bears, and blood and fire raining from the sky.

Dawn came to early.


	5. Eddard II

Double update!

I felt bad for making you guys waiting so long, so I decided to give what all of you wanted, but before that…

Regarding the Storm's End negotiation: Thanks for the comments guys! Hope I can satisfy even more! (:

And now to the moment you've all been waiting for…

**EDDARD**

From the depths of the Red Mountains to their front rose a single, solitary tower, and Ned Stark's heart skipped a beat or two.

The Prince's Pass was the longest part of their five-fortnight venture from King's Landing to here. Ned wished the pace would pick up just about now. Rhaegar had sent Ser Barristan Selmy forward to inform the rest of the Kingsguard charged with guarding Lyanna of their coming. The Silver King had sent ravens from King's Landing but none had returned.

When they departed Storm's End, Baelor Hightower, the one with the smile as bright as the sun, and Lord Leyton had accompanied them, bringing with them fifty good Hightower men to escort them the rest of the way and back to King's Landing.

_Gaining the kings favor, _he had first thought when they offered to accompany them. But as he spent more time with them, he had the feeling they had no care for the favor of kings or the desire for power. They did this because it was their duty, their king; not for personal glory or advancement. He respected them for that.

He had spent a considerable amount of time on the ride speaking with Baelor 'Brightsmile' Hightower, and he found they were very much the same; both were servants of justice, both loved their fathers very much (besides the fact Ned's was now gone), and they had no interest in personal glory. Brightsmile had grinned and remarked "A little wouldn't hurt, though, if gained by accident."

Ned looked back toward the rear of the party in time to see Lord Leyton riding toward him. The Old Man of Oldtown nodded to him I greeting. "Lord Eddard. I must admit, I never thought I would like the heat of Dorne as I do right now. Storm's End was quite cold, especially sitting on the outside of it for a year."

_Perhaps you chose the wrong side if all you were worried about was a warm hearth. _Ned chuckled, wiping sweat off his brow. "I never thought there _was _such heat until I entered the Prince's Pass, Lord Leyton. Being raised in Winterfell and fostered in the Eyrie, I never imagined so much sweat could escape a man."

Lord Leyton grinned. "It will get much worse, Lord Stark. Trust me."

After a full hour of riding, they were halfway to the tower. The heat, as Lord Leyton said, got even worse than it was before. Ned knew now he under-exaggerated when he complained of the sweat before; he thought he could live off his sweat forever down here.

One of the spokes on the wagon behind him, carrying the food supplies, broke out of nowhere, the food rolling into a deep ditch off to the right. Some Hightower men ran to save as much of it as they could, but failed to retrieve all of it.

King Rhaegar rode up from the middle of the column with Ser Jonothor Darry close behind. He examined the damage from the saddle, and sighed. "Ser Jonothor, halt the rest."

Ser Jonothor nodded, yelling out for the rest of them to stop for now, while some men set to fixing the wagon's spoke.

Ned grunted, turning to stare at the tower. _Seems the gods have cursed me with every delay they can muster. Lyanna, I'm almost there. Just a while longer._

From the path down from the hill the tower sat, a white horse with a rider clad all in white as well galloped at full speed toward them. Ned could glimpse the white cloak of the Kingsguard billowing behind the rider. He could hear his yelling as well.

Ned spurred his horse onwards, galloping with all the speed the black stallion could muster. He could hear the Silver King yelling after him, telling him to stop, to slow down, he could not distort what he was saying, but it was something of that sort.

As he neared the Kingsguard rider, he slowed down, and now could see who the mysterious man was. Ser Barristan was covered in dust from head to heel, as was Ned, he noticed.

As the knight approached, Ser Barristan yelled out "Your Grace!"

Ned was about to yell to him that he was obviously not the king when Rhaegar rode up beside him, also covered in the red dust of Dorne. "What is the urgency, Ser Barristan?"

The knight of the Kingsguard dismounted and kneeled. "It is Lady Lyanna, Your Grace…" He tried to catch his breath. "She… she is in urgent… urgent need of care…" He spit out some sand.

Ned's face immediately went white, and he knew because he was no longer sweating. "What is wrong with my sister?"

Ser Barristan coughed staring at Ned.

"She… Lord Eddard… she is giving birth…"

Ned did not pay attention to whatever else he said; he was already spurring his horse at maximum speed to the tower that held his sister.

The winding path upwards meant no difference to Eddard Stark; he maneuvered it with ease.

As he reached the tower, he saw grim Ser Oswell Whent guarding the doors to the stairs. The knight tried to convince Ned to stop, but his ears were ringing and he was deaf to reasoning. He pushed him away and kicked the doors in.

The ringing of his ears went away when a sound broke the barrier.

His sister's cries of pain.

"_Lyanna!" _he screamed as he charged up the spiral steps, up towards his sister, to his only sister, his sister that he loved.

"_Lyann—" _He tripped and stumbled down the sandstone spiral staircase, grunting in pain, growling, clawing at the steps and wall to his left to keep going.

He landed with one last grunt, tried to rise, couldn't, sighed, and gave up.

"_Ned!"_

Lyanna's cry reinvigorated him; he pushed himself up, grimacing and growling in pain. His back was on fire; he had landed on it quite hard. He stumbled up the first couple steps, almost fell. That's when Ser Oswell came in and tried to stop him.

Ned cried out to Lyanna as he kicked Ser Oswell full in the face, breaking his nose. On all fours, he scrambled up the stairs and got halfway up before he stumbled again, falling three steps, then got back up again. Ser Oswell was about to charge for him again, seething, but then the Silver King charged in.

"Ser Oswell, enough! Let him go!" Rhaegar and Ned exchanged looks, and Rhaegar nodded his approval.

When he got to the room after several other times stumbling, at the very top of the tower, of course, he kicked in the door.

He saw Ser Arthur Dayne yelling for Lyanna to push harder, Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, staring out the window to the north, and then he saw her.

Lyanna was on the bed, screaming in pain unimaginable to a man, blood lathering the covers down below her legs. She did not seem to notice Ned yet. Her dark hair was unkempt and her grey eyes were closed in pain, but even in childbirth one could call her beautiful. She had always been headstrong as a bull, but now it seemed she was struggling with this process of giving birth.

Blue winter roses were scattered throughout the room, especially on the bed, most of those being covered in Lyanna's birthing blood.

After a bigger scream than usual, she finally saw Ned. Lyanna smiled brightly. "I… I knew you would—" She screamed again, tears now escaping her eyes.

Ned ran to the bed side, one hand on his back, which hurt even worse now that he climbed all those steps. "Lyanna," was all he could say; he did not know what else _to _say, to be honest. What were you supposed to say to a woman in labor?

The Silver King entered the room without Ser Barristan or Ser Oswell, Ned saw. He pushed Ser Arthur Dayne away from Lyanna. "Leave us, both of you," he said as he knelt down between Lyanna's legs.

Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold hesitated, but left, bowing.

Ned's eyes were welling with tears of joy. "Lyanna… you… you're alive…" He smiled.

Lyanna smiled, tears now pouring from her grey eyes. "I fear not for long, my dear brother…" She cried out again.

Rhaegar's eyes widened as more blood gushed out. "I can see the baby's head. One more push should do it, My Queen of Love and Beauty." Ned could have sworn he saw Rhaegar's eyes on the verge of tears as well.

Lyanna screamed, louder than ever Ned had seen her before… and Rhaegar smiled; the tears began to flow from his eyes as he raised the wailing child above his head for them to see.

Lyanna laughed and cried as Rhaegar placed the babe in her arms. The child's wailing beat against Ned's ears, but he did not care; he was smiling and on the verge of tears as well.

Lyanna smiled as she kissed the child lightly on the head. "He is beautiful."

Rhaegar smiled, wiping tears from his eyes. "We must name him, My Queen."

Lyanna was about to speak, but she cried out again, more blood gushing from her cunt. The babe wailed as his new mother cried out in pain.

As Lyanna clenched onto Ned's hand as hard as possible, Rhaegar set into a sudden panic. "We… we have to stop the bleeding… Ned, grab that towel over there, in the corner."

Ned was about to rise but Lyanna pulled him back down. "No… my brother…" She smiled, addressing them both now. "I was not meant to live past this birthing it seems… My King… my brother… fate has chosen its own path for me… as it has for you… and our first… and last child, my Silver Prince…"

Ned thought Rhaegar would correct her on his new title, but he did not; he just fell to his knees and put his face in his hands, crying lowly.

Lyanna turned to Ned. "Ned… promise me that the child is raised like a Stark, kind, but also cold when necessary… Rhaegar, my dear… promise me that our child will learn to be just and honorable… as you are…" When they did not answer, she yelled out in a harsh voice "_Promise me!"_

"I promise," they both said in unison.

Lyanna smiled, still holding onto Ned's hand. Rhaegar's face was grim as he took the baby from her hands. "What shall I name him, my love?" He smiled; Ned knew it was for Lyanna, and no other reason.

Lyanna's smile began to fade, but it was still there when she said these final words. "Jon…"

She lost her grasp on life, her grasp on Ned's hand, and her grasp on the roses she held in her other hand.

Ned's tears finally let loose in a flood, and he screamed with a sadness like no other.

The last thing he remembered before he lost consciousness was that the room smelled of blood and roses.


	6. Tyrion I

Boy, I am on a ROLL aren't I? Three chapters in three days is it? Think that's a personal record on my part (:

First off: I hope I satisfied with last chapter! I am a huge fan of R+L=J so I'm glad I could do that in this AU (:

Now, before you read this next chapter, you need to know one thing: we are now past the events of Robert's Rebellion, and are now fast forwarding into the time of A Game of Thrones, the first novel of the series that GRRM created like the master he is! The chapters were a sort of introduction into some new and old POV's that I decided to incorporate into this story.

Here you guys are, the first 'official' chapter of the time skip!

**TYRION**

"I regret," said Grand Maester Pycelle, his voice echoing off the walls of the throne room, "Your Grace, to inform you that Lord Jon Arryn has taken his final breath. The fever has taken him."

The court stood in silence. Tyrion Lannister rolled his eyes. _They all act as if they did not see it coming. _Jon Arryn had been lying in that bed of his for a fortnight muttering nonsense and guttural talk; you would think that they would know the old man was going to die sooner rather than later.

Jon Arryn had served as master of coin for close on five-and-ten years. No man was better suited to the task; he brought the economy back up and running not even a year after the devastating rebellion that rocked the Seven Kingdoms to their rotten core, and kept it running until this year. King Rhaegar had barely even had to ask for any loans from the Iron Bank of Braavos, the biggest occasion being the tourney held at Runestone three years ago.

_And now that he's gone, this place will be as vacant of gold as Summerhall is of people._

The Silver King sat on his Iron Throne, made from the thousands of swords of Aegon the Conqueror's enemies, supposedly, his golden crown worn heavy on his head. He had it fashioned many years ago just after Robert's Rebellion, rather than wear his father's old one. Tyrion had heard in that whorehouse he had visited a couple days ago in Fleabottom that the smallfolk thought the Mad King's crown was cursed to bring madness upon anyone who placed it on their head. Tyrion knew it was folly, but perhaps everyone's Silver King thought otherwise?

Rhaegar sighed heavily, rubbing his temples, looking exhausted. "Send a raven to the Eyrie, Grand Maester. Inform Lady Arryn that her husband has passed on. Use my seal." He waved him away. Pycelle bowed and withdrew into the crowd.

The Silver King rose, grimacing, looking over his court. "We will arrange for a proper funeral to be held for Lord Arryn, here in King's Landing. Everyone may come and go as they please." He nodded, fixing the collar on his half-black half-red doublet, and then stepped down from the throne. "I am finished here," he said to the herald.

The herald bowed slightly and announced in a high, shrill voice for a man, "All hail King Rhaegar of the House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the Silver King, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. All are dismissed."

Tyrion took one last glance at King Rhaegar, realized he was looking back, and then moved to hurry out of the throne room.

As he turned on his heel he ran into a woman taller than him (even though everyone was), her brown hair swaying gracefully even as he bumped into her. He could see some silver strands all around it. Her copper skin could lead anyone to think she was full Dornish, but her slightly-silver-more-brownish hair gave her identity right away, along with her one violet and one deep brown eyes.

Tyrion bowed deeply as soon as he realized who she was. "Princess Rhaenys," he said, glancing at the spot in between her legs. He wished he could see right past that red Myrish lace gown. He knew he would later though.

Rhaenys took Tyrion's hand in hers and brought him back up, smiling. Her eyes bore into his soul, which some people believed was smaller than Tyrion himself. But not her, never her. "Please, Lord Tyrion, you embarrass me. Come, walk with me." She put his arm in her arms, and they began walking.

Tyrion glanced to look at Rhaegar one last time, but the Silver King was gone.

_Thank the gods._

The courtiers outside the throne room stared at them awkwardly while they passed. _It should be no surprise to you, fools. She is kind to me, the only one that is genuinely. _

Near fifteen years ago, the year that the Rebellion ended, Father had rode to King's Landing to set up a marriage between both Tyrion and the Copper Targaryen, as some other whore called her that one time. It failed miserably. _'That miserable little cretin,' _he had heard Queen Elia say in the other room when consulting Rhaegar about it, _'will NOT marry my daughter, our only daughter, our eldest child. I would give up all of Dorne to the Lannisters if that is what I had to do to satiate them if they were so hurt after I refuse to marry a Princess to that… that IMP.' _

_All of Dorne would not satisfy me if I had met my Sunflower before she offered it up. _Even though the marriage was refused, Rhaenys had been kind to Tyrion, even as children; they had played nonstop in the Red Keep whenever his father had brought him along to King's Landing for some business or other. Tyrion would be completely miserable when Lord Tywin left him behind at the Rock without his love, his second and hopefully final and eternal love.

_I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair… No. Stop it, fool, Rhaenys is your love now, your only love, and not a false one either. She is no _whore.

Tyrion examined her from head to heel. "You look beautiful today, my lady. Is that a new gown?"

Rhaenys smiled brighter than the sun. "Yes, my lord. A gift from…" She stopped midsentence, shaking her head. "It does not matter, Tyrion."

Tyrion sighed. "Another suitor I would imagine." Her face went red. Tyrion laughed. "I did not think it could get any redder."

Rhaenys scoffed and shoved him a bit, playfully. She sighed. "Lord Renly again; he just refuses to give up."

Tyrion rolled his eyes. _Why in the seven hells is he even trying to poke my princess with his sword when he already is stabbing Ser Loras Tyrell on a basis of regularity? _"It's the game everyone plays, Princess, you know, the one with thrones? Everyone wants something and will get it or die."

"Well I don't like that game, Tyrion, not at all. Especially how Renly Baratheon is playing it. Does he think I will whore myself around like one of those exotic women from Lys?"

Tyrion couldn't control his laughter. Rhaenys chuckled along, shaking him. "It's not funny," she said.

Tyrion smiled and attempted to kiss her there and then, but she reared back, looking around. "Not here, my love. Come," she said as she dragged him into the chamber he had been waiting to be for seven days.

As soon as they got in they went at each other like a pair of hares in heat. He pushed Rhaenys down on the feather bed behind her and began attacking her lips with his own, his hand brushing against her hard left nipple.

She began to kiss his neck and whisper into his ear, "Touch me, my lord of Lannister, my Lion, please. Yes there, _their! Oh!"_

Tyrion ripped open her new gown of red Myrish lace like a man three times his size, her giggling like a maid of five-and-ten. He went down below her legs and stuck his face into her cunt like a lion going into his cave. After that was done, he fumbled with his laced up trousers, and stuck himself inside her.

He could not remember how long it took to be done, but they lay there holding each other for quite some time.

Rhaenys whispered to him, "I would love some wine, my Lion. I guarantee you would like some too, after that." She bit his earlobe.

Tyrion chuckled, kissing her one more time, and got up, stretching. He had not paid attention to the room much before, but he threw a quick glance. Candles we lit everywhere; hanging on the wall, sitting on the supper table in the center of the chamber, the table by the bed, everywhere.

_She's been preparing for this for a while, _he thought as he poured them both a silver goblet of Arbor gold.

Rhaenys had moved, still in the nude, to the small round table near the bed, just a couple feet away from the balcony. She was staring at him teasingly with her mismatched eyes. That was one thing they had in common; mismatched eyes. He loved that.

He slipped on some trousers at least, laced them up, and then sat with Rhaenys at the table. They stared at each other and drank for a while, getting past two cups, when Rhaenys suddenly asked "What do you think of Jon Arryn?"

Tyrion took a sip of wine and stared into the night beyond the balcony. "A dead man, obviously."

"I mean why do you think he died, silly." She chuckled.

Tyrion smiled. "You mean how he truly died? You think this is some sort of plot?"

"He was seen talking with Stannis Baratheon on a number of occasions, on Visenya's Hill, the Great Sept of Baelor."

Tyrion sighed. "That is unusual, I have to admit; I can't think of Stannis praying at all anytime soon. Doesn't seem like a godly man."

"Could it be possible? Stannis has finally entered the 'game'?" She chuckled playfully.

"No one is excluded from the game, my dear, pawn or player." His tone was grim, and he meant to be, because it was true. There was no saying that someone was not plotting against someone else.

Rhaenys smiled slightly, swirling her drink in its container.

Tyrion sighed, hopping down, grabbing the extra flagon on a shelf by the bed. He could feel the Copper Princess's eyes on his back. "What do you think of that Petyr Baelish," she asked. "He seems like quite the character."

_Littlefinger. _The man had shown up on what seemed to be a magic carpet of accomplishments; he had won the king's favor in the first week since the New Year, and just kept gaining more and more power and favor. "He seems like a man with an angle, as all new additions to the court seem to be. This Petyr though, his angle seems more planned than most of the other courtiers' combined." He hopped back up, grunting, settling into the pillow that made him seem taller in the seat.

"I think he might be a potential ally, my love; he has managed Gulltown and its incomes and exports for how many years?"

Tyrion chuckled. "Mine as well make him Master of Coin on the spot."

"Which is just what my father will probably do." She walked over to the balcony, staring into the night sky. "Speaking of my father… I suppose you saw that he already knew that Jon Arryn was dead?"

Tyrion's head rose at this. "What?"

Rhaenys smiled turning back to him. She was beautiful in the moonlight, even more so in the nude. "I play this game better than you, my Lion of Lannister. He had known since last night, he just waited until today to break the news to the court because he needed a reason."

Tyrion frowned, walking slowly towards her. "A reason for what?"

She smiled. "You know he and Eddard Stark have grown close. What other reason than to visit his good friend and personally invite him to his dead foster father's funeral?"

Tyrion chuckled, taking her hands in his. "You _do _play this game with surprising skill, my dear. You are one dangerous player indeed."

She giggled and began dancing slowly with him. "Will you come with us to Winterfell then, my love?"

"Why not? I have yet to see a single snow flake in this long as all hells summer, and what better places to see one than where summer snows are at their finest?"

_I could not give a single shit about snow, to be honest. The only reasons I am going is for you, my love, and the Targaryen boy… gods, I have not seen him in a year now. That is probably the only reason your father is going as well, to see his child that is barely here, your half-brother. He couldn't give even a fart for Ned Stark, I bet._

They danced for what seemed forever. Tyrion Lannister could say, once again, that he was in love, and this was indeed the life he was meant to live.


End file.
